


Albion Rising

by luminare91



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Don't Judge, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, I haven't decided yet, Merlin needs saving, Mordred isn't evil, Morgana might not be either, No Beta, Reincarnation, Return of Magic, They all need a hug, all mistakes my own, typos likely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 13:03:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminare91/pseuds/luminare91
Summary: It’s been centuries since Camelot stood tall. Now it’s magic stirs again. Key players awaken. The Round Table reconvenes. King and Queen are reunited. Friends and foes meet once more. This time, it’s not Albion that needs saving. It’s Merlin.





	1. Prologue

It was the hardest thing Merlin had ever had to do, walking back into Camelot without his king by his side. Every step beat another hole into his heart. There were no more tears, however. He'd cried them all on the shores of Avalon.

Night had fallen by the time he reached the gates. Out of habit and a pressing desire not to speak to anyone until he found Gwen and Gaius, he slipped past the guards. It was almost too easy. They really did need to be more careful with all the mad sorcerers on the loose. Merlin didn't doubt that there would be many waiting to retaliate for Morgana's defeat. For all her cruelty, she had fought for the freedom of her people. That alone would have been enough to rally sorcerers to her cause. Her natural charisma, barely diminished by her madness, was just a bonus.

Merlin reached the castle more quickly than normal. Or maybe he just hadn't noticed the passage of time. It did seem to be moving in odd spurts. With the same practiced stealth with which he had moved through the town, he crept through the castle to Arthur and Gwen's private chambers. He supposed it was just Gwen's now.

He didn't bother to knock. What was the point of changing the habit of a lifetime when it was already too late? Arthur wouldn't be there to mock him for the rare show of propriety. His heart ripped a little further.

Gwen was still fully dressed. She was standing at the window, looking out of the courtyard. Even from across the room, he could tell that she was watching the gates, waiting for her husband. She didn't notice him enter. Gaius, who had been standing by the fire in silent company, did. The old man gasped. The queen spun round, took one look at Merlin, alone and so very broken, and crumpled. Her head dropped into her hands as her knees hit the floor and she was wracked with agonized sobs. Gaius clutched at the mantelpiece, his face pale, but silent. Acting on instinct, Merlin stumbled across the room to the woman who had been his very first friend in Camelot. He gathered her into his arms. She buried her face in his chest and clutched at his tunic. Would you look at that? It seemed he had some tears left after all.

* * *

A week later, Merlin had changed his mind. Walking into Camelot without Arthur wasn't the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. Picking up the pieces after all the losses was. They'd told Leon and Percival the news first. Leon had stood rigid in silent tears. Percival had punched the wall. When Percival had told him about Gwaine, Merlin had barely reacted. The pain in his heart was far too familiar.

He'd told them about Emrys, that he was the sorcerer who had saved them at Camlann, that he had come too late. He'd told them about Mordred and the prophecy and how he had tried so hard to prevent it. He'd expected them to hate him. They hadn't. Percival had figured it out long ago. Leon had given a weak smile and said that magic explained so much.

After a week of mourning, Gwen was crowned queen. The people rallied behind her, common born or not. Within hours, she lifted the ban on magic. She quelled any protest with the reminder that so many of them would not have survived Camlann without the help of magic. She then promptly named Merlin her court sorcerer and closest advisor. That took some getting used to, mostly for Merlin.

In time, they healed. The pain lessened, though it never left. Sorcerers seeking vengeance in Morgana's name marched on Camelot. They met the anger of Emrys. With the ban lifted, Merlin was free to study. He explored the breadth of his powers and was constantly amazed by what he could do. Magic came to him more easily now than it ever had before. Gaius said that it was remarkable. Merlin never told him what had happened in the Crystal Cave. He kept the meeting with his father close to his heart.

Gwen never remarried. It wasn't in her heart to do so. Some of the nobility muttered about the need for an heir, but he and Gwen both knew in their hearts that Camelot, that Arthur's vision, would die with her. All around them, the world was changing. Magic became ever more feared. Camelot was it's last haven. Even with the strength of her armies and the might of Emrys, it was only a matter of time. Camelot, with Arthur's fall, had become a relic of the past.

Four years after Camlann, Gaius died peacefully in his sleep. Merlin, Percival, Leon, and Gwen took his body to Avalon. They had done the same for Gwaine. Fifteen years later, Leon was killed in a raid. He took an arrow meant for a young knight on his first patrol. He too was taken to the lake. Gwen was next. At the age of fifty-six she contracted an illness that Merlin could not cure without wielding the power of life and death. Gwen would have killed him if he had tried that. He took her to Avalon before she died so that she might spend her final moments as close to her beloved as possible.

Camelot fell. In the days after the queen's death, the Saxons struck with relentless fury. Even Merlin's magic wasn't enough to drive them back and he felt in the back of his mind the balance of all things willing him to let it happen. So he and Percival took as many refugees as possible and fled. When they were safe, he counseled the citizens of Camelot to seek homes elsewhere and to forget. Everything had its time, and Camelot's was done.

He and Percival journeyed the world for the remainder of the knight's days. They helped where they could, fighting bandits, blessing crops in secret. It was nearly ten years after the fall of Camelot that Percival breathed his last, an old man.

Standing on the shores of Avalon, the boat that held his last friend fading into the distance, Merlin let fade his last great lie. The years melted away from his body. Sagging skin tightened and regained its youthful color. His hair darkened and shortened. For the first time in decades, he stood tall. He had never told them. Not even Gaius had known. At first, he hadn't been certain. Events in the Crystal Cave had only hinted that he might be immortal. The last thing Merlin had wanted was to give his grieving friends more need to worry. Even when he'd been certain that he was no longer aging, he hadn't said a word. It had been easy to mimic the weathering of the passing years, to use magic to physically age alongside his friends, to pretend.

He raised his hands to the sky. No words were needed. There wasn't a spell for what he was about to do. He wasn't even entirely sure how he was going to do it, just that he could. He reached for the magic inside him and for the magic around him and wove a great barrier. No mortal man would set foot on the Isle of Avalon and the lake would remain unsullied, both standing as a final testament to magic, until magic itself disappeared forever.

The effort sent him to his knees. The world spun for what felt like hours before he managed to catch his breath again. Merlin slowly hauled himself to his feet. Mist had gathered over the lake as the only sign that his spell had taken. His eyes lingered for one final moment on the Isle. Then he turned. He walked away, leaving Merlin on the shore and taking Emrys with him.

* * *

The years passed. Merlin kept to himself. He had little desire to undergo the pain of outliving his friends again and there was little place for magic any longer. Christianity was quickly taking hold. The old ways simply were not tolerated. In many ways, it was like Uther all over again.

Merlin travelled. It was difficult to stay in one place for too long without attracting attention. Sometimes he aged himself as he had alongside his friends, but frankly the few extra years weren't worth the aches and pains that accompanied seniority. He saw things that, even as an immortal warlock, were almost beyond belief. He continued to study magic, especially the strange practices he found in other lands. It all came easily to him. Magic was magic, no matter what language the spells were. He preserved it all in a tower that no one else could enter that stood near what had once been the Valley of the Fallen Kings. He knew it would be needed some day.

It was just his luck that he was drawn to important historical events. He saw the Battle of Hastings in 1066 from afar. While travelling in the east, he saw Ghengis Kahn unite the scattered Mongol tribes and he was pretty sure that he met Confucius. He applauded at the signing of the Magna Carta. He tended the sick during the Plague. It wasn't like he even could get sick and  _someone_  had to do something. In a desperate bid to flee Albion for a while, he sailed to the Spice Islands on a Portuguese trade ship. From there, he ended up on a sugar plantation. When he saw the deplorable conditions, he cursed the owner with bad luck for the rest of his life as freeing the slaves would only put them all in danger. He would have done more, but he had learned a long time ago that sometimes saving the few made it worse for everyone.

He stayed out of the American War for Independence. Both sides were in the wrong with that one (1) and he wasn't about to get in the middle of it. Instead, he spent years with the native peoples, learning about their beliefs. It was the closest he had come to the Old Religion in a very long time. The new world lost its appeal after he was caught in the middle of the Civil War (and he hadn't wanted to knock sense into everyone so badly in centuries). He got himself back to Albion as fast as possible. He never could remember to call it England or Britain.

He visited the Lake of Avalon upon his return. A little town had grown up on the shore. The villagers fished on the lake, but they didn't set foot on the Isle, as Merlin had intended. Tired from his travels and fed up with the general state of the world, he disappeared into the few wild places that were left. Time was meaningless as he allowed himself to give over to his magic. It wrapped around him and flowed out into a world that needed it so desperately and at the same time didn't.

When he finally reined his power in, he became aware that something was wrong. He emerged from the Wild to find the world in the grips of a mighty war. The imbalance of life and death struck him with all the force of a mace to his gut. It nearly sent him to the round. He'd never longed for Arthur more.

Wishing did little good, so he conjured up the necessary papers and enlisted as a medic. He did the same when World War II began. When he found out about the concentration camps, he shattered every window in his building. He didn't stick around to explain.

"You all right, mate?"

Merlin blinked himself out of his memories. He did this, every now and then. He'd lived so much that sometimes, he just lost himself if what had been. He wondered if it helped keep him sane and drove him just a little bit madder.

He was sitting next to a window in a generic café somewhere in London. A young woman, just older than he appeared to be, with a dirty white apron tied about her waist was looking at him concernedly.

"Sorry, what?" he asked.

She gestured vaguely to the table in front of him. "You were staring at the sandwich like you wish it would go up in flames."

 _If that were true, I wouldn't be trying so hard_. Aloud he said, "Just thinking, I suppose."

"Worried about the new term?" she asked knowledgably.

"Yeah." Not really. He'd been to university before. Every thirty years or so he went to medical school in memory of Gaius. He did history every now and then to see what they were getting right and what they were getting wrong. This time, it was Literature. He was getting a bit itchy to be one place for a while and it sounded like something that would keep him busy for a while.

"What year?" pressed the waitress.

Merlin smiled shyly. He had far too much practice at this. Deceit had become too easy. "First," he replied.

"Don't worry, love," she said reassuringly. "Freshman year isn't so bad. You'll manage. Do you want that reheated?" She indicated the now wilting sandwich.

He shook his head. "No, it's fine. I'll just take it go, if that's all right."

"I'll be right back with the bill."

He didn't wait. Pulling a few bills out of his pocket, Merlin dropped them on the table, picked up his sandwich, and left.

The sun had set long ago, while he was lost in his memories. The streets were mostly empty. Every so often, a car would trundle by or he would pass a man in a dapper suit, briefcase in hand, hurrying home after a late day at the office. This particular section of London was sleepy in a way that appealed to him.

He pulled a sheaf of parchment out of his pocket as he walked. For some reason, it seemed to hold enchantment better than modern paper. Merlin had spent an interesting few years figuring out how to make it, but eventually he'd figured it out. These particular pages were covered in the flowing language of Old Magic. All that was missing was the activation. Merlin had discovered early on that living forever came with a certain amount of lying. In more recent years he'd started keeping false identification with him at all times. It meant less sneaking around. However, tonight sneaking was exactly what he was doing. The one downside to the spell he used to replicate official documents was that he needed to know exactly what he was replicating.

Which was why he was breaking into the local public records office.

Merlin gave the parchment one last look, just to be sure the ink hadn't run or the pages hadn't been torn, as he slipped unerringly into an alley that ran behind the records office. He carefully tucked the parchment back into his jacket pocket and observed the building with a practiced eye. Hardly a high security office, it was easy to get inside. A wordless spell had the door swinging open.

He worked quickly. Within ten minutes he'd found every document he needed to duplicate. The original was laid alongside one of the pieces of parchment. Merlin spread his hands. Again, he didn't speak. He'd done this too man times for that. The words on the parchment glowed. They bled together, forming new words and lines. Then, the glow faded, leaving behind a birth certificate, several report cards without outstand marks (he'd been in school for centuries, it was only bloody fair), medical records, and some other paraphernalia that he might need.

A pang stabbed through Merlin's heart, as it always did when he used this spell. It was a variation of the one he'd used so long ago in a mad attempt to help Lancelot.

Shaking the maudlin thoughts away before they could consume him, Merlin quickly replaced the documents he'd removed from their respective filing cabinets. No one would be any the wiser. He tucked his own back into his pocket and quickly slipped out the door.

The magic hit him the moment the door locked.

It was like nothing he had ever felt before, not even in the days of Camelot, when magic had been at its strongest. He could feel it roiling under his skin. It took all of his considerable control not to loose his grip. He stumbled and caught himself against the wall. The magic ripped through him again. With a jolt like a kick to the stomach he realized that it wasn't his magic. This power was raw and primal, the very power of the earth. It was the magic he had felt in the crystal cave.

All thought was driven from Merlin's mind. The magic poured into him and through him. His own power battled the invasion instinctively. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside. His very soul was in agony. Golden light obscured his vision.

Everything went black.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is just something I picked up in my history class. One of the major grievances that the colonies had was that the crown was trying to levy taxes that they should have been paying in the first place. They just hadn't been required to for one reason or another. Of course there were a dozen other, very legitimate reason as well, but I can just see Merlin wanting to throw his hands up. 
> 
> Author's Note: Okay, I know that I should be working on RoM or any of my other WiP and I promise that I am. This plot bunny just hit me over the head yesterday and it's amazing and I can't stop thinking about it, so here it is.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's unlikely that updates will consistently be this quick. I've got a couple of chapters already posted on another site (I've been neglecting Archive, much to my embarrassment), so I'm just catching up here.

The shrill tone of a phone alarm broke the early morning stillness. Robert Moore groaned and rolled over. One hand scrabbled across the cluttered surface of the bedside table for the offending mobile. His fingers brushed the cool edge of the phone. It skittered away from him and let out another tone just to spite him.

He groaned again and buried is head in the pillow for a moment before reluctantly pushing himself up. He grabbed the phone and swiped across the screen to shut it off. He sighed in relief at the blissful silence and then he noticed the time on the screen.

"I'm late!"

The mobile dropped to the bed. Robert scrambled out of the bed. One foot caught in the bed spread, sending him sprawling. One knee hit the bedframe. That was going to leave a colorful bruise by the end of the day. He was tempted to just stay on the floor. He could probably reach his phone without moving too much. It wasn't too late to call in sick and he had plenty of days off that he could use. His conscience got the better of him. The semester was starting in just three days. It was all hands on deck at the little off-campus bookstore, a favorite haunt of the literature and history students of Camelot University. Considering that all hands on deck meant that Robert and the sole other employee, a fellow work study student that he'd rarely seen and usually gave every appearance of being high, were both in the shop at the same time, he couldn't quite justify not turning up. Besides, he really needed the money.

Ignoring the throbbing in his knee, Robert hauled himself to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom where he took the quickest shower known to man. Still slightly damp, he pulled on the least wrinkled pair of trousers he could find and one of his semi-nice button ups. He raked his fingers through his damp hair, forcing it into a semblance of order that he knew wouldn't last. The atomic clock over his bed mocked him with the time. He was so very late.

Sock feet slid on the ground when he careered into the kitchen. He nearly cried when he saw that he had indeed set the automatic coffee pot to brew the night before. Robert slopped a copious amount of the blessed caffeine into his favorite mug. He didn't bother with his usual cream and sugar and instead choked down the too bitter, too hot liquid as quickly as possible. He dropped the mug carefully in the sink, grabbed his messenger bag, and bolted out the door. Sixty seconds later, he strode back into the flat and grabbed his shoes.

It was a good thing that The BookShop was just down the street and that the weather was cooperating with him. Robert sprinted down the sidewalk, clumsily dodging the few other pedestrians out at that time. Toby, the other employee, was lounging outside the door when Robert slid to a halt. The other man blinked disinterestedly while Robert fumbled with his keys.

He let them both into the shop. The smell of books and the strange weight that came to with every bookstore greeted them. Robert loved the aura within the shop. He was incredibly lucky to have landed the job for his work-study. Mr. Tomlinson had even agreed to let him come up early.

"Do you want the register or the back room?" asked Robert.

Toby just shrugged and shuffled past Robert.

"Back room it is."

It was probably for the better. Toby wasn't much of a people person.

Sighing tiredly, Robert dropped his back behind the counter and fired up the ancient computer. The monitor stayed stubbornly blank, no matter how many times he jabbed the power button. The damn thing was positively ancient. Out of frustration, Robert slapped the monitor. A tremor of energy rippled through his fingers. It felt almost like a shock. The monitor flickered and turned on. Robert raised an eyebrow. That was…different.

The old-fashioned bell over the door chimed and a young woman, clearly a university student, walked into the shop. Robert promptly forgot about the strange behavior of the monitor and pasted a smile onto his face.

"Welcome to The BookShop. How may we help you today?"

The woman started slightly. She'd been gazing around the shelves in something that might have been awe and hadn't noticed the counter or the man behind it. A shy smile tugged t her lips in answer. "Just looking. Um…where are the textbooks? You have them, right?"

"They're in the back. We haven't got room for them out here. What classes do you need?"

"Oh, well," a blush formed across her cheeks and she bit her lip fetchingly. "I really just wanted to check your prices. I'm not sure if I'll buy here."

"That's all right. If you want, I can go check the prices for you."

"Thanks!" She dug around in her bag and produced a wrinkled sheet of paper, which she handed to Robert. He glanced over it quickly.

"Be right back."

Toby was snoring slightly in the corner of the backroom. Music emanated from the earbuds shoved firmly in his ears. Robert rolled his eyes. Sometimes he really wondered how Toby managed to keep his work-study.

The books the young woman needed were easy to find, some of their best sellers. Robert quickly jot down the titles, ISBN's, and prices on a piece of paper.

"Here you go," he said as he came out of the back room. "The top prices is for a new book and the second is for a used. The last is for a rental. You've only got two of those. If you've got scholarship you can get a discount. This," he picked up a flyer of the counter, "explains how that works."

The young woman beamed. "Thanks! Do you mind giving me your name? In case I have questions?"

Robert felt himself blushing. It wasn't the first time that he'd had someone ask for his number since he'd started working at The BookShop. It wasn't as though he was horrible looking. The dark hair, pale skin, and blue eyes wasn't completely unappealing, but he had a tendency to be awkward and no one had ever looked him twice before.

"You can just call the shop, I'm usually here," he hedged. Her smile slipped a little and he just couldn't help himself. "Just ask for Robert."

She beamed. "Right. I'm Tori. Thanks again for all the help."

The rest of the morning went a bit more smoothly. Robert spent most of his time sorting through the online orders. The school graciously sponsored a link to the shop for those interested in offering patronage to the local small businesses (that was almost the exact wording). Camelot University catered to a fairly wealthy student body that was pretentious enough to think that buying from the local bookstore instead of conglomerate was impressive. But he wouldn't get started on that.

He stacked the various texts together for each respective customer and labeled them meticulously before setting them on a trolley so that he could take them to the back when he had a chance. The computer froze a record three times. Each time, it shocked him and went right back to working. A steady stream of customers trickled into the store after Tori left. Some were students looking to pick up their orders; others were just interested in the quaint little shop they had found while running around their new home.

At noon, Robert took the orders into the back and dragged Toby to the counter, literally dropping the still half asleep stoner onto the stool behind the counter.

"Do you want anything from the bistro?" Robert asked.

Toby grunted. It sounded vaguely like a yes.

"Be back in twenty minutes or so."

The bistro across the street was bustling as usual. Robert ordered two club sandwiches, just in case Toby was indeed hungry. The girl behind the counter grinned at him when she handed over the order. He just blushed and hurried out the door.

The moment the bell rang, Toby retreated to the back again. He didn't even take his sandwich.

Robert felt strangely restless after his jaunt across the street. The computer had frozen while he was gone and it shocked him again when he tried to get it working again. It was the strongest charge yet and it left his skin tingly. Mildly freaked out, Robert hurried into the back. They'd gotten new inventory in a few days before and he'd been putting off sorting through it. Wandering through the shelves seemed like a good idea now, though.

The tingle didn't fade. He managed to push it aside while he sorted through the new inventory and wandered the shelves to find where it went. But when he let his guard down, the restlessness returned. It felt like his skin was too small and too tight. The world seemed too bright all of the sudden, too loud, and too close. Once or twice, he imagined that he could feel Toby breathing in the back room and he knew that someone was going to enter the shop before the door even opened.

He hadn't been so glad for the day to end since he'd come in with a raging head cold.

Toby fled the moment the clock struck seven. Robert was sorely tempted to follow, but he stayed behind responsibly to go through the motions of closing. The tingling was getting worse. Every inch of his skin buzzed. He felt absolutely wired, as though he'd had too much caffeine.

He was so keyed up that he went home and changed into an old pair of jogging short and a ratty t-shirt. There hadn't been much chance to go running since he'd come to Camelot. The job at The BookShop had kept him busy with long hours, even if there wasn't too much to do and moving in had taken up every other spare moment. Even now, he was tired and he had to be up early the next day, but he was just so restless.

As he ran, Robert's thoughts drifted. Things had changed so much for him in the past couple of months. He still couldn't quite believe that he was gong to be attending Camelot. It was a notoriously selective school. You either had money or you were brilliant. It was even better if you were both. Robert had never thought that he, the orphan who had been bounced from foster home to foster home, who'd been to what felt like a dozen different schools, would get the grades that would qualify him for a full scholarship to Camelot University.

It wasn't as though he'd led a particularly horrible life. He might have been a ward of the state, but none of his foster families has been that bad. They hadn't been home, either. He'd worked so hard to get away from that, but he'd never thought that he'd actually make it to Camelot.

There were days when he woke up fully expecting to find himself back in the dingy little attic room that he'd called his own for his last year of high school.

The tingling only got worse the longer he ran and the more his thoughts drifted. Robert stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, at least half a mile from his flat, and dropped his head into his hands. He almost expected his skin to crawl off his body. The ground felt unsteady under his feet and his heart was trying to beat out of his chest.

A car went by. The noise of the engine nearly deafened him and the wind of its passing felt like it was going to knock him off of his feet. Robert stumbled away from the street. His shoulder hit the wall of the nearby building with jarring force. The rough brick bit into his skin with more force than he would have thought possible.

Then, the tingling faded and the ground became firm beneath him again. Everything still seemed sharper than before, but it was bearable. Robert drew in a ragged breath. He needed to get back to his flat.

More than once, he thought he wouldn't make it. The world tilted or the tingling became overwhelming. This was the downside to being new to a city. He didn't know any one, not that he'd thought to bring his mobile with him when he'd bolted out his door, not that he'd really made friends, moving around so much. The busses didn't exactly run at that time of night and Camelot was it's own little town. It didn't have taxis.

Robert did, miraculously, make it back to his apartment. By the time the door closed behind, he was starting to shake. The restlessness had faded, leaving behind a bone deep weariness. He barely had enough presence of mind to make sure that his mobile was plugged up and the alarm set for the morning. Pausing only long enough to strip of his shirt and toss it aside, he collapsed on the mattress and curled into a shivering ball.

Sleep came surprising quickly.

* * *

_The stories always said that death had a stench. He hadn't believed it before. Now, he did. It smelled like sweat and blood and fire and hundred other foul things that he wasn't sure he could identify. Below him, two armies fought and died with a clamor that would ring in his ears for days, he was sure of it. His own chainmail weighed heavily on his shoulders and clinked with every breath._

_A hand descended on his shoulders. His nerves were stretched to tautly that he nearly reached for his sword, though he knew there was only one person it could be. She was staring at him intently._

" _Go," she hissed. Her eyes glinted madly._

_He swallowed. He had so hoped that it wouldn't come to this._

_The sounds of battle faded a bit as he made his way down the winding path that led from the top of the pass. It snaked away from the field before doubling back. For a moment, he could almost pretend that he was running away. There was a place where the path split. One fork led away from the pass. For a moment, he was tempted to take it. He didn't want to do what he knew would be required of him if he stepped onto the battlefield. He knew that he couldn't. If he didn't, she would and she would see it through._

_He continued on._

_Lightening flickered over the horizon. He paused and frowned. That couldn't be natural. His fists clenched. He prayed that she hadn't joined the battle. It was too soon. There was no one to stop her._

_He quickened his pace, nearly racing around the last few bends in the little path. Lightening smote the ground. A dozen men fell to the ground. But they were her men. Impossible hope welled up in his chest. He looked up to the ridge of the pass. Directly opposite where he had been standing not so long ago was an unfamiliar figure. He had never seen the old man before, but he recognized the magic. His shoulders dropped and relief flooded him. He'd been so afraid that she had succeeded in killing their only hope._

_Lightening struck again, smiting down more men. In the midst of the fallen bodies stood a single warrior. His armor glinted in the firelight. He was staring up at the figure on the ridge with mingled horror and awe. The man on the ridge stared back. Then he turned and disappeared. He hoped that the man was making his own way to the battlefield. It was only a matter of time before she appeared._

_Something cold gripped his heart. She was still there. He could feel her in the back of his mind. Her magic was a presence he wished that he couldn't feel. With the man's appearance, she would be livid and desperate to end things. It didn't leave him much choice._

_Reluctantly, he drew his sword from its scabbard and strode out onto the field._

_Her men were fleeing. A few were still fighting. They paid him no mind and he was able to make his way unmolested across the field. It didn't stop him from discretely tripping a few of her soldiers. This wasn't what he had wanted to happen when he went to her. He wasn't sure what he'd wanted in that haze of pain and anger, but not this._

_The warrior was kneeling beside one of his fallen men. He watched the warrior's head drop when the life left the solider he knelt beside. He crossed the field to the warrior._

Stop me, _he prayed._ Please, stop me. Kill me, if you must, but don't let me do this.

_Nothing happened. Nothing stopped him. He drew closer._

_He didn't want to do this, but he had no other choice. She would be watching. If he didn't go through with this, she would and she would be sure that there was no chance of survival._

_He purposefully allowed the tip of his blade to ring against a stone on the ground and stepped more firmly. The warrior stiffened. Good, the warrior had heard. He realized that he felt a bit nauseous and that his hands were shaking._

_The warrior spun, rising smoothly to his feet and parrying the half-hearted blow that he had found himself making. Shock flickered across the warrior's familiar features. His stomach rolled again. Oh, he had never wanted this. How could he have not known that this was how it would end when he stormed out of the city? There as a reason he had turned away from her in the first place. He never should have gone back, no matter how twisted by grief._

_Cold dread began to wash through him as it suddenly hit him just how far he would have to go. The man from the ridge hadn't reappeared. There was no one to stop him and he didn't want to think what she would do if he didn't make the move she expected of him. The warrior was still staring at him in disbelief tinged with anger and sadness._

_He knew what he had to do._

_He expected the warrior to parry, to stop him. The warrior was the better swordsman. He had never come close to defeating him in any of his training and then the warrior hadn't been trying. He expected to end up with the warrior's sword at his throat. He never expected his own blade to be the one to taste flesh._

_The enchanted blade bit easily through the chainmail the warrior…no the king, he was a king, not a mere warrior. He could feel it slice easily through the flesh beneath the armor. The king's eyes went wide. He withdrew his sword. It nearly fell from his nerveless fingers._

_The king jerked when the blade was removed. He gaped a bit. One hand went to his bleeding side. His knees wavered and buckled. He collapsed slowly._

_He stood frozen, only able to watch. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. The man from the ridge…the warlock, he was a warlock, a warlock that should have stopped him. It was the warlock's job to protect the king. Why hadn't he protected the king? Why hadn't the king protected himself? The king was the best warrior in the land and he was but a barely trained novice beside him. He should never have been able to land anything more than a glancing blow._

" _You gave me no choice," he whispered. He hoped that the king understood his meaning._

_The words forced life into the injured man. With speed that a man hale and fit would have envied, the king lunged forward. He felt hot pain before he could even comprehend that they were suddenly eye to eye and the king had a handful of his mail. The pain made it difficult to think, difficult to keep hold of his own magic, but he forced himself to maintain control. They stared at each other. The king jerked his blade up. The pain spread. It intensified when the king removed his sword._

_And then the pain began to fade. He knew what it meant and he could find peace with that. This was how it was supposed to be. It wasn't the ending he'd been hoping for, but it was one he could be content with. Unbidden, a smile fought its way free. He hoped that the king could understand one day why this had had to happen. Maybe the warlock would explain._

_His own knees buckled and he fell to the ground. It hurt a little, but only a little. He hoped the warlock hurried. He knew that the wound he had given the king was not mortal if treated, but only if treated. The warlock would have to hurry. He wished them all the luck he hadn't had. He never should have lost his faith. Maybe then, this could have happened differently._

_He felt his energy drifting away. His final thoughts were of the warlock. Maybe, one day, Emrys would forgive him as well._

* * *

Robert Moore jerked upright in the bed. The sheets were wet with sweat and twisted around him. His chest was heaving. He could feel himself shaking. He gazed around the room frantically. It took him a moment to realize that everything was floating half a foot off the ground.

His gaze fell on the little mirror attacked to the chest of drawers across the room. There was a familiar tattoo on his chest that hadn't been there just that evening when he went to sleep. That wasn't what made him gasp.

His eyes were glowing gold.

That broke the spell. Everything hit the ground with a jarring thud. The downstairs neighbors were probably going to complain in the morning. That was the least of his worries. Images were flashing through his mind. Oh so familiar images of a life he hadn't remembered he'd lived until just moments before.

It hit him with all the force of the sword that had once killed him. He remembered.

Oh,  _gods!_  He remembered!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...what do you think?


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I offer no excuse for how long it's been since my last post, save to say that real life is an absolute bitch and that there is nothing worse than trying to write when exhausted. The last several years have been an absolute rollercoaster. The learning curve for "adulting" has been steep. But I'm finally getting the hang of it. I've recently gotten a new job that does allow for some downtime. It is a more regular schedule. So far it has already been incredibly conducive to my ability to write. I cannot guarantee that updates are going to come with anything like the regularity I once managed, but progress is finally being made. I have not given up on any of my fics. I even still have plans to edit and rewrite my Smallville multi-chapters. Everything will eventually be finished. I cannot thank you all enough for sticking with me. Nothing has been more inspiring than to see people still following and reviewing my stories even after all this time. Every single one of you are the reason that people like me do this. You are truly amazing.
> 
> All right, enough blathering on. I've delayed you more than enough. On to the story.

_He remembered._

He remembered growing up in a succession of foster homes, none of them horrible, but none of them truly home, either. He remembered monotonous days of classes and homework. He remembered pick-up football games in the middle of the street with the other children. He remembered evenings spent watching TV, or rambling around town with his classmates. He remembered his first date and how awkward it had been. He remembered winning an award at the science fair. He remembered standing in line for the first  _Harry Potter_  movie and for all the ones after. He remembered graduating. He remembered learning how to drive. He remembered getting his first acceptance letter for university. He remembered packing up and moving into the dinky little flat his scholarship had provided. He remembered everything.

And he remembered a childhood spent amongst roving bands of druids. He remembered nights where he slept amongst the trees, days spent mastering his magic. He remembered years of hiding in fear, and yet years of peace. He remembered the day that he was cast out because of his destiny, despite his not understanding what they were talking about, not until many years later. He remembered wandering the woods until he fell in with the king he barely remembered and the legend he so desperately admired. He remembered feeling at home for the first time even as he struggled so hard for the acceptance of the person from whom it mattered most. He remembered failing, failing so badly that he could never repair the damage he had done. He remembered fire, and battle, and blood on his hands. He remembered death. He remembered everything.

The new-old wound in his gut throbbed. Mordred glanced down at himself. He gingerly fingered the weal of thick scar tissue. Nearly the length of his hand, it was narrow at the base and widened, twisting toward his navel where the blade had twisted. It felt odd beneath his fingers, like his mind couldn't quite process that it was there. He could still see and feel the unblemished skin that had been there until that very day. And he could still feel blood gushing from the wound over his fingers, hot and sticky. He could still feel pain spearing through him with every breath, slowly shattering him from the inside out.

His stomach heaved. Unable to fight it any longer, Mordred scrambled from the bed. He barely even noticed that the blankets had moved themselves aside. He nearly tripped over the trainers that he had kicked off the night before, but long-forgotten reflexes helped him keep his balance.

The light in the bathroom flicked on before he even crossed the threshold. He blinked at the sudden onslaught of brightness and threw himself on the cool tile before the toilet just in time.

Mordred knelt there, clutching at the porcelain like a lifeline. Magic crackled, barely restrained beneath his skin, heightening his senses until he almost couldn't bear it. Every seam in the tile pressed painfully into his knees and shins. The cloying, chemical sent of toilet bowl cleaner hung in his nostrils. The gentle whirring of the air conditioner clicking on was louder than a battle to his ears. His blood was afire with magic that had been denied and forgotten for too long. It was all he could do to control it. The memories of his final moments threatened to consume him. Smoke and ash and death nearly choked him. The clash of sword against sword, the clamor of men fighting and dying, of dragons attacking rang in his ears. His wound ached again. Fumbling slightly, Mordred released one hand't death grip on the toilet and pressed his fingers over the wound, as though to staunch it.

Time passed. His head spun. The world felt like it was tilting and shifting around him. Mordred knew that it wasn't, only his perception of it. Magic changed the way one saw things.

Slowly, so very slowly he was able to calm himself enough for old skills to reassert themselves and he regained the ability to temper the flow of his magic. His stomach settled as his control returned until, maybe minutes, maybe hours later, he was able to rise on shaky legs and stumble to the sink.

The faucet switched itself on when he reached it. Mordred arched an eyebrow. That was something he would have to work on. He doubted that this time was ready for something like magic anymore than Camelot had been. He would have to find some place remote to blow of steam and re-hone his skills. He might remember everything, but he knew that it would take practice to truly attain the control and skill that he had once had.

He slipped his hands beneath the stream of water and splashed his face. It felt good against his sweat-stained skin. He looked in the mirror.

The figure that looked back at him was familiar, not different from what he had seen the day before, but not exactly what he was expecting. It didn't quite match with his newly restored memories of Camelot. There was a bit more roundness at his jaw than he recalled. Thinking about it for a moment, Mordred realized that, not only had his life been quite a bit easier this time around, but that he was probably a year or two younger now than he had been when he had died. He couldn't quite be sure of the exact difference. Marking age had been less than exact in those days and he had never really cared to keep track. As a druid and a warlock, his status as boy and man had been determined by the maturity of his magic, not how many summers or winters he had seen.

His skin was as fair as ever. No amount of time out of doors had ever done anything more than turn him unpleasantly red. There were fewer lines around his eyes than he remembered. Less anxiety and fear in this lifetime, he guessed, and fewer days spent staring into the sun. His hair was still dark, thick and unruly, but it was a little bit shorter and actually cut in such a way that made the tousling look intentional. He took a step back to get a better view of himself. He was slimmer now, still fit but he could see that he had little of the whipcord strength he had garnered over years of hard living and months of battle training. This was a runner's build, not a warrior's. He looked down at his hands. They were no longer calloused from days spent wielding a sword and scraping living from the forest.

Mordred looked back up at himself. His more recent memories, Robert Moore's memories, didn't quite match either. He stood differently now, taller and more confident. There was grace in his stance that had not been there before, and strength. He was more comfortable in his own skn. His posture was straight, his weight cast forward slightly on the balls of his feet, ready to move at any time. He knew without doubt that he could walk through the world without sound if he wished it in the way that all druids could. And his eyes, they were heavy with memories of pain and experience and things long since lost.

Mordred slumped and dropped his head into his hands.

"By the goddess, what is happening?" he muttered.

He looked back up at his reflection. The scar on his abdomen stood out starkly from the rest of his pale skin. He suddenly felt cold. Fingers lifted to the pulse point at his throat without thinking. He heart beat thrummed rhythmically beneath his skin, a little fast, but  _there._

"How am I alive?"

He had never heard of anything like this happening. Rebirth was a topic that had been bandied about as philosophical debate amongst the elders. There had been some belief that a person's spirit did not die and that it instead reborn, but he'd never taken it seriously and he certainly hadn't expected it to happen like this. He distinctly remembered two different lives. The elders had always thought that, if rebirth was possible, that the spirit would not remember its past lives save in certain constant characteristics, but he remembered being Mordred in Camelot and he remembered growing up Robert Moore in England, but he didn't feel like two people. It was like he had always been himself, but the memories and magic of his past had lain dormant until...until what he had no idea.

The worst of it was, he had no idea where to start looking for answers. It wasn't as though there was a secret magical community in this age and, if by some miracle there actually was, he wouldn't know how to find it.

"And I doubt the internet will be much help," he said, thinking out loud as he paced back into his bedroom. "Ninety-nine percent of that will be utter nonsense. The public library won't help either. If they have histories that include anything about the Old Religion, it'll be entirely too broad and if they contain any magical theory then I'm a cockatrice. Blast it, this is going to be impossible! Where is Gaius when you need him? He always knew what to do. It's no wonder Emr-"

He stopped short.

"Emrys," he whispered. "He should still be alive. The legends always said that he was immortal. If anyone would be..."

It was the perfect answer. Merlin had always had a preternatural connection to magic. If anyone could guess at what had brought Mordred back, it would be him. There were just two problems.

Mordred ran a hand over his face. "Right, then I just need to find him. And hope that he doesn't kill me on sight."

So maybe it was a horrible plan, but it was the only one he had. Merlin hadn't trusted him  _before_  he'd gone AWOL and joined Morgana. It would be a miracle if the other warlock didn't smite him on sight. Mordred highly doubted that Merlin would care that he had been quite literally mad with grief and despair when he had left Camelot. By the time he had come out of his haze, he had already betrayed Emrys and his King. In his madness Mordred had given Morgana the secret she needed to strike a lingering blow against Camelot. There had been no going back after that. Not that he hadn't tried. But Merlin couldn't know how he had attempted to mitigate the damage Morgana had done. Merlin would not be aware of how much it had sickened Mordred to be party to her schemes, how he had only done it because he'd seen no other way to stop her. Merlin couldn't know how much Mordred had regretted what he had done. Mordred hadn't lived to tell him.

At least, he didn't think that he remembered speaking to Merlin before he had died. His last few moments were hazy. He was fairly certain the he would recall something as significant as using his dying breathes to plead his case to Emrys. The last thing he he could fully remember was approaching Arthur, keeping up the farce that he was Morgana's ally as long as possible, and—

Mordred fell to his knees at the foot of his bed. His hand once more found the smooth scar of the gut wound that had claimed his life.

A wound very similar to the one he had dealt Arthur.

He remembered the shocked look on Arthur's face when he had realized who he was facing. Mordred had nearly forsaken the whole charade then and there. It had torn him apart to see his friend and king so hurt by his actions. But he had held strong, knowing that Morgana would kill them both if she suspected anything. He remembered how surprised he had been when Arthur had not parried his blow, the way bile had risen his throat when his king had fallen to his knees. He remembered how the tables were turned and how he had welcomed it.

And he knew in the depths of his soul that his last hopes had been in vain. That Merlin had not made it in time. Even his power had not been enough to undo what Mordred had done. His hand and the dragon-blade had done their foul work. Arthur's blood was on his hands. He had murdered his king, his friend.

Crumpling in on himself, Mordred dropped his head into his hands and wept.

Outside, the wind howled and lightning split the sky in answer to a warlock's grief and anger.

* * *

The lake was still, the water as reflective as a polished mirror. It was always still. It never stormed there. Only the lightest of breezes stirred the mist, just enough to keep the air from feeling stagnant. It was always the perfect temperature at the lake. Neither too cold or too warm, but just right.

A young woman crouched at the edge of the lake. Her vibrant purple dress and blue wrap contrasted sharply against the green of the grassy bank. Freya passed a pale hand over her reflection in the water. The image twisted, folding in on itself, shifting and changing until the image of a dimly lit room was displayed. She frowned and titled her head.

The room was spartan, containing only three pieces of furniture: a bed, a small dressing table with a lamp on it, and a beat-up chest of drawers. Everything was clearly pre-owned. The walls of the room were a faded pale blue. It had probably been a lovely color once, but it had long since taken on the grey-yellow tinge of age. The previous inhabitant had probably been a smoker.

A man sat in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. He didn't look much older than the woman. In fact, he might have been a bit younger. His head had lolled back onto the edge of the mattress. He was fast asleep. Shaggy hair lay in tangles across his close eyes and tear-tracks still glistened on his face. One hand was cradled across his bare torso, covering something protectively. A small tattoo marked one side of his chest. A subtle aura of gold surrounded him. Mortal eyes wouldn't have seen it, but she did.

"So, he has returned," she murmured, waving a hand to dismiss the image and rising to her full height. "I would not have expected him."

Silently, she glided away from the lake's edge. A narrow, but well-trod gravel path wound its way between rolling hills, skirting a verdant forest. Freya took it.

Eventually, she could not say how many hours or minutes later for time had no meaning in this place, she reached a tower of stone. It rose high into the air, it's spire disappearing into the blue sky. A single door stood in the eastern face of the tower. A red pennant with rampant golden dragon flew above it. Freya lifted a hand. The door opened. She strode inside.

The tower was empty save for a set of stairs that ringed the tower to its full height. She began to climb.

Paintings and tapestries hung on the walls along the stairs. They told a story, one well loved, but long forgotten in its truth. It began with the birth of the world and ended in a time that had not come. Freya paused before a portrait near the top of the stairs. Her hand lifted to caress the familiar cheekbones. A sad smile crossed her ruby lips. She continued her journey.

The stairs ended on a platform at the very top of the tower. There was no door, just a whole in the floor for the stairs. It was empty, save for a bed. The bed was large. It had four posters and a canopy. Crimson curtains had been drawn to their posts and tied back with golden cords. A rich quilt of red satin lay over the finest white cotton sheets. Nearly a dozen pillows lay against the headboard. Two windows, one to the west, one to the east, kept the bed in constant ray of sunlight.

At the sight of the bed,she stopped short. Her hand flew to her heart and she gasped.

The covers had been thrown back. The bed was empty.

A tear slid down the Freya's cheek. "At last," she whispered. "Albion rises once more."


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She lives! So adulating sucks in the worst way possible. It's a massive time and inspiration suck, but I'm being stubborn and soldiering through. Thank you all for sticking with me. I'm still working on editing and rewriting Return of Merlin. So, it may be a little while still before there's a new chapter. I have big plans for that story and I want to do it justice. In the meantime, here's the next chapter of Albion Rising. Enjoy!
> 
> PS: There may be ridiculous typos in this because I was more interested in posting than I was in editing. Sorry.
> 
> AO3 Edit: This is the last chapter that I'm catching up from fan fiction.net. Updates will be much slower after this

Mordred woke with a crick in his neck and twinge in his spine. He was propped against the foot of the bed, his head tipped back awkwardly to rest against the edge of the mattress. He was half slumped over onto the floor. One buttock was tingling with pins and needles. His wrist ached where it was twisted awkwardly behind his back.

Grunting slightly, he blinked and looked around groggily. Sunlight was spilling into the room trough curtains that he had neglected to close in the chaos of the previous night. Mordred groaned again and pressed his eyes closed against the unwelcome brightness. Slowly, he pushed himself upright into a more conventional seated position rather than remain in a crumpled heap. A crack emanated form his spine as he straightened, sending sharp tendrils of pain up and down his back. Biting back several ancient oaths, he grit his teeth and persisted until he was sitting up, his legs stretched out in front of him. He rubbed tiredly at the small of his back and took stock.

He felt a little more like himself, whatever that meant, than he had the night before. Or perhaps he simple felt more settled, less like there were two people at war inside his head or more like all the memories in his head belonged to him. The two facets of himself had been given the time they needed to meld and become one, to become balanced.

Grief still hung heavily on his heart. It was more manageable, but just as piercing as it had been last night and as it had been twelve centuries before. He doubted that it would ever truly fade. The guilt and grief would always linger. He wasn't entirely sure that he would have it any other way.

He heaved himself to his feet, groaning, "Bloody hell," as he did and held out one hand without thinking. His phone flew across the room after detaching itself from the charger cord on his bedside table. That was going to take some getting used to. Mordred scrolled through his phone until he found the number for Maxwell Drake, the older gentleman who owned The BookShop. He knew that he wasn't anything resembling fit for company at the moment. His unintended magic was proof that he didn't have much in the way of control and while he was no longer reeling from his awakening, he doubted that he would be able to act as he had before he had remembered with any degree of believability. It would raise questions that he wasn't ready to answer.

The phone rang for nearly three minutes before kicking over to an answering machine and the gravelly voice of his boss filtered through the speaker.

Mordred bit back a sigh of relief. He wasn't entirely sure what he would have done if he'd actually needed to speak to another person.

" _You have reached Maxwell Drake, owner and proprietor of The BookShop on Main Street. Please leave your name, number, and reason for calling after the beep and I will return your call as soon as possible."_

BEEP.

Belatedly, Mordred realized that he hadn't bothered to come up with any kind of excuse for why he would be missing his shift. He certainly couldn't tell the truth. His mouth opened and closed silently. Gods be damned, but what was he supposed to say?

A mechanical, female voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

" _If you would like to listen to your message, press one. If you would like to save your message, press two. If you like to record your message again, press three."_

He punched the "three" key and proceeded to fall back on the oldest trick in the book.

"Hello, Mr. Drake," he said in a voice rough with tears and sleep. Well, at least he sounded sick. "This is Robert Moore. I've got a bad case of he flu and can't make it in for my shift this morning. Sorry for the last minute notice. I will let you know if I feel better tomorrow. Have a nice day."

Ending the call, he swiped across the screen to lock the screen and tossed the phone back onto the bed. It was a good thing that Mr. Drake hadn't answered the phone. Mordred didn't think that he would have escaped the call without an interrogation. The old man could be frighteningly perceptive, especially when it came to matters concerning his shop.

"Right then," he sighed. "First order of business taken care of. The next, I suppose, is to get full control of my magic again. There's got to be someplace I can practice without attracting attention."

He dragged a hand through his hair. Across the room, his laptop flipped open by itself and turned on.

* * *

The parking lot outside of Galahad Hall Dormitory was teeming like an overturned anthill. Cars were jammed into every available parking spot – and into a few locations that weren't actually meant for vehicles.

A tent had been erected near the entrance to the dorm for resident check-in. A large cooler filled with water bottles stood open on a table just outside the shade cast by the tent. Students, parents, and volunteers bustled back and forth across the pavement, hauling boxes, suitcases and even furniture into the building. One girl nearly tripped over the curb and dropped the box she was carrying when she saw her friends. She immediately set the box on the ground so that she could sprint across the grass. They all squealed happily as they traded hugs. Three burly young men cursed loudly, but uncreatively, and complained about the lack of elevator as they tried to wrestle a bulky set of shelves up the stairs without dropping it or running someone over. All across the parking lot, people were shouting at one another to watch where they were going.

It was, in short, barely organizing chaos.

Grinning tiredly, Arthur Penn, third floor RA, dropped himself into one of the chairs in the registration tent. He wiped the sweat from his face and gingerly rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks he'd developed during his shift hauling boxes. It felt good to be out of the direct sunlight. As much as he enjoyed the frenetic energy of move-in day, he had been looking forward to his turn at the registration table for hours.

It was getting to be mid-afternoon and the check-ins had slowed to a trickle. At this point, Arthur's job was mostly to answer questions, direct traffic, and hang about at the registration table for the last students. Almost everybody had already arrived, but a few people had called to say that they were running late. One kid, a third year transfer student who happened to be on Arthur's floor, had called that morning with car trouble. He'd called in again two hours later to say that he and his parents were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. A bit of Googling had revealed an over turned eighteen-wheeler that had completely blocked the highway. They had ended up telling the poor kid to call when he was thirty minutes out so that they could arrange someone to meet him for check-in. There was no way he was going to make it before the designated time frame for dorm registration ended.

"Having fun?"

Arthur looked up to see his sister (half-sister, she always correct) and fellow RA standing over him, an amused smirk on his face. Arthur bit back a sigh.

"What do you want, Morgan?"

One elegant eyebrow lifted in an equally elegant arch. "What makes you think that I want anything?"

"You always want something."

She laughed lightly, a pretty tinkling sound, and lowered herself gracefully into the chair beside him. For a moment, she remained silent, watching the crowd with sharp eyes. The silence stretched a bit uncomfortably between them, but Arthur didn't break it. He knew Morgan well enough to know that she wouldn't speak until he was good and ready, no matter how frustrated he was.

"Do you have the feeling that something is about to happen?" she asked eventually, her voice quiet. He had to strain to hear it over the noise of the general chaos surrounding them.

Arthur blinked in confusion. "Do you have sunstroke?"

Morgan visibly snapped back to the present and whipped around to glare at him. "Of course not! I…oh, you know I can't explain it! I've had this feeling all day. Like this odd anticipation. I just…I just know that something is about to happen. And that it'll happen soon!

As inclined as he was to tease Morgan, the urgency in her voice stayed the quip that rose to Arthur's lips. Morgan had always had an uncanny awareness of impending events. He still remembered vividly the night that she had called him nearly two years before, sobbing in distress because she was certain that her parents were in danger. Less than a week later, their car had hit black ice when they were returning from a charity event and both her mother and father were killed on impact. Arthur hadn't doubter her since, not when she got that particular tone of urgency in her voice.

Arthur straightened in his chair and reached across to lay a hand on her arm. "I'll keep my eyes open for something life-changing," he promised.

She smiled back gratefully. "That's not actually what I was supposed to tell you, by the way. Everyone's checked in, except for the one kid. He checked in Leon not to long ago and they're still hours away. Apparently, it took forever to clear the wreck. Leon will check him in when he gets here. In the mean time, we can pack up and start meeting and greeting our residents."

Reflexively, Arthur glanced skyward. The sun was beginning to get rather low. He stood with a groan, tired muscles protesting at the movement.

"Did Leon say anything about the tent and the card table?" he asked.

"Leave them here. Someone is supposed to get them for the other dorms."

Arthur nodded. Together, they gathered the myriad clipboards, pens, and other check-in paraphernalia into a box that had been stowed under the table. Morgan helpfully took that box for him, leaving him with the far heavier box filled with completed registration forms. He gave her a glare, to which she just smirked in return. Together, they wove through the crowd, stopping to answer questions about where to find other buildings on campus or where things were located in the dorm itself. Eventually they made it to the front desk, where they dropped their boxes for the Senior RA to collect and file.

He caught Morgan's elbow before she head to the girls' side of the dorm. Her eyebrow lifted again.

"Hey, whatever it is that's coming, we'll figure it out," Arthur promised. "It would be like your parents."

Morgan smiled sadly. "Oh, Arthur. You can't possibly know that."

* * *

Merlin dropped the last box on the unmade bed and surveyed the crowded little room that would be his home for the next year. It was barely big enough to fit the twin bed and tiny desk that been crammed along one wall. With all of his boxes and bags unloaded from the car, there was barely room to walk. But it was his and his alone.

It was finally official. He was a junior transfer student at the University of Camelot, one of the premier colleges in Albion. After two years at the community college in Ealdor, he was finally here. Merlin still couldn't believe it. He'd even gotten a full ride scholarship and a work-study.

A warm arm wrapped around his shoulders. He turned and smiled at his mother.

"Is that everything from the car?" he asked.

She smiled at her son. "Your dad's just double checking. Do you want any help unpacking?"

"I don't think there's enough room for all of us to get in here," Merlin chuckled. "Besides, you and dad still have to drive back to Ealdor and it's way later that we thought it would be after all that traffic. I'll be fine."

She fondly patted Merlin's cheek. "Are you sure?"

"He'll be fine, Helen," said his father as he slid past them into the room. He had a couple of odds and ends in his arms that had fallen out of the battered boxes they'd used to pack up Merlin's belongings. "Do stop worrying so much."

Merlin pulled his mother into a hug. He knew that she was just concerned for him. This was going to be the first time he was off on his own and with the strange headaches he'd been getting lately, the ones that laid him out for hours and seemed unaffected by painkillers, she was doubly worried.

"Uncle George is here if I need anything," Merlin reminded her. "I really will be fine."

"It's a mother's job to worry over her son."

"Yes, but not to suffocate him," teased Merlin's father.

Helen glared good-naturedly at her husband. "Need I remind you, Barry, that you were the one fussing over whether Merlin packed enough sweaters?"

Stifling a laugh, Merlin watched his father blush and stammer out a response that was complete gibberish. He'd been incredibly lucky growing up. They'd never had much. His dad worked in the factory outside Ealdor and Merlin had helped his mother run their little flower-shop, but they'd always made sure that he had whatever he needed, especially when it came of his love for books.

He watched in amusement as his parents argued over who was more worried about him for a few more minutes before cutting in.

"Not that I'm trying to get rid of you, but there's a floor meeting this evening and I want to get a bit unpacked and I want to try to talk to Uncle George as well. Besides, you know you don't want to be on the country roads after dark."

His parents stopped arguing. Helen looked a bit sheepish.

"Oh, of course dear. We'll leave you to it." She gave him another, almost bone crushing hug. "Don't forget to call us every Sunday and pay attention to your studies. Eat at least once a day, you now how you get, and do stay out of trouble."

"Me? In trouble?"

To be fair, it wasn't usually his fault. He had a chronic case of nobility, his mum called it. Whenever he saw something unfair, usually in the way of a bully picking on someone, he intervened. It often got him beat up and in trouble with his teachers, once or twice, even the police.

"Promise me you won't go looking for trouble?" Helen pressed.

"I'll try, mum."

His father chuckled. "That's the best you'll get out him, Helen. At least his heart is in the right place when he gets himself a black eye."

Merlin stuck his tongue out.

He followed his parents outside. After exchanging more hugs and goodbyes and promising once again to call every Sunday, he waved goodbye to them as they drove away. He suddenly felt rather lonely. His only friend was back in Ealdor, still attending the local community college. He had no friends in Camelot. In fact, he didn't know anyone besides Uncle George, who was his mother's uncle. It was a bit strange to be off on his own, but Merlin was looking forward to the coming year.

He checked his watch before heading back inside. It was nearly seven o'clock. The floor meeting wasn't until nine-thirty, which was intended to give everyone a chance to unpack according to the flyer merlin had found taped to his door, but Uncle George would only be in his office for another hour. Merlin ran up to his room to grab a map of campus, just to be sure that he didn't get lost.

Camelot wasn't an overly large school, but it was old and it had been expanded and added onto so haphazardly over the years that it was a bit of a maze. With the help of the map, Merlin was able to find his way from his dorm to the on-campus medical facility. Uncle George was a doctor there, specializing in herbal remedies. Merlin was going to be assisting him for his work-study, though he wasn't entirely sure yet what he would be doing.

Merlin pushed the door open and walked into the building. The lobby was predictably empty, but there was a young woman in a nurse's scrubs sitting behind the desk, looking extremely bored. Merlin walked up to her.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a monotone.

"Um... I need to see Dr. George Lareow. I'm his new work-study student." When he got no response he added, "He's also my uncle. Is he still here?"

Lazily, the nurse picked up the phone and dialed an extension. "What's your name?" she asked, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Merlin Emerson."

For the first time, the look of boredom vanished. Her eyes widened in undisguised interest. Merlin suppressed a groan. There were times that he hated his name. His mother had once told them that they'd originally intended to name him something more mundane, though she hadn't said what. Apparently, the moment he was born, they just knew that his name was Merlin, whatever that meant. Most of the time he liked his unique name and the connection to the Arthurian legends. When he got the strange looks for being named after one of the most legendary warlocks of all time, he didn't like it so much.

The nurse started and turned her attention from Merlin to the phone.

"What? Oh, sorry Dr. Lareow. There's someone named Merlin Emerson here to see you...All right, sir." She put the phone down and looked up at Merlin. "You can head on back. His office is at the far end of the hall."

"Thanks," said Merlin, giving her a tired smile. He practically scampered out of the office and down the hallway, determinately ignoring the look that was following him.

Just as the nurse at the front desk had said, Uncle George's office was easy to find. It was straight down the hall. Of course it helped that there was a nice plaque next to the door that clearly read  _Dr. George Lareow_.

Merlin knocked on the half open door and stuck his head in.

An old man with white hair that brushed his shoulders and black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose was bent over a table at the back of the room, fiddling with something that Merlin couldn't see. He looked up when he heard Merlin knock. A smile broke out across his face.

"Merlin, my dear boy. When did you arrive on campus?"

"About half an hour ago," he said, moving forward to hug the old man. "Mum and Dad dropped me off. They would have stayed to visit, but it's a bit of a drive."

"Of course. Perfectly understandable. How are you settling in?"

Merlin shrugged. "Well enough. I haven't even begun to unpack. I just wanted to stop by and say hello."

"Well, I'm glad you did. It's been far too long since I've seen you, my boy."

It had been several years. The five hour long drive was difficult for the old man to make alone, and Merlin's parents were often too busy to take the time to drive into Camelot.

Uncle George beamed at him. "How have you been?"

"All right, I guess," Merlin shrugged. "I suppose mum called to tell you about the headaches?"

The old man nodded. "She did. However, she didn't tell me much. Perhaps you could fill me in a bit more?"

"There's not much to tell. They come without warning, every couple of weeks or so. It's like a bad migraine, but I'm not sensitive to light or anything. My whole head just hurts. Usually, I end up lying down and trying to sleep. They pass after an hour or so."

"I see. I'll look into it, but I can tell you now that I've heard nothing of the like before."

"I really appreciate it," Merlin said sincerely.

Uncle George simply smiled. "It's nothing. Besides, I can't have my new assistant skiving off because of headaches."

"About that, what exactly am I supposed to be doing?"

"Whatever I tell you to. Mostly running errands and assisting me with a few things in here. My hands aren't as steady as they once were and my eyesight is not as strong. There are some things I cannot do as well as I once did."

Merlin nodded. "All right. When will you need me?"

"We'll discuss that after your first week," declared Uncle George. "That will give you time to adjust to your class schedule and allow us to determine when you will have the time to be here."

"I'll drop by Friday after classes then," Merlin grinned.

"Best come right at closing," Uncle George advised. "I'll be sure they know to let you in and that way, I won't be with a patient."

"So, around five o'clock?"

"The closer to five the better, Merlin. I seem to remember you having a talent for lateness."

Merlin blushed slightly. He was well known in Ealdor for hurtling into everything five minutes late and making a grand scene of it as he did. "I'll try to be on time, Uncle. And I'd love to stay and talk, but there's a floor meeting later and I really need to get unpacked."

"I've got work to be doing, anyway. It was wonderful to see you again, Merlin. Feel free to stop by any time, even if it's not for work. If I'm with a patient, you can wait here, so long as you don't touch anything. I'm still trying to figure out how you got that tincture to explode the last time you visited."

Despite the admonishment, the old man was smiling fondly at his nephew.

"I told you, I have no idea how it happened! I was across the room!" Merlin whined. He knew he'd never live that incident down.

"Of course you were," said Uncle George dryly. "Off with you. You don't want to be late."

Grinning cheekily, Merlin ducked out of the office. The nurse was no longer sitting at the front desk, a small kindness for which he was immensely grateful. He didn't feel like being stared at again because someone half expected him to sprout a snow-white beard and conjure lightning from the tips of his fingers just because of his name. It was surprising how often he got that look.

When he reached his dorm, he traipsed back upstairs to his room and surveyed the chaos. It was an absolute mess, worse than his room usually was. He was sorely tempted to just clear off the bed and leave it at that. It had not been an easy day. The car had gotten a flat twenty miles out of Ealdor and they'd barely been on the road again when they hit traffic so backed up that it took three hours to travel a distance that should have taken just over an hour on any normal day. He was absolutely exhausted, but if he didn't start unpacking, he would probably never get around to it. Heaving a sigh, Merlin set about sorting through the boxes and unpacking.

He worked steadily for hours. Only a few boxes remained when his phone went off at a quarter after nine, warning him of the impending meeting. He hurried down the hall to the small common room. No one was there yet. He half expected most of the floor to ditch anyway, but he was going to be a good student, so he settled into a rather old and beat up armchair to wait.

* * *

Arthur walked tiredly back to his room. He'd spent the rest of the afternoon introducing himself, answering questions, collecting room evals, and even breaking up an argument that had sprung up between to roommates who couldn't decide who got which bed. He was exhausted and the day wasn't even over. He still had to lead the floor meeting with Leon in less than an half an hour.

Intending to change into a clean shirt and take a few minutes of peace for himself, he had decided to skip dinner with Morgan and her roommate Gwen, with whom both of the Penn siblings had been friends for years. He trudged into his room, rubbing his hand over his face and thanking God for the quiet and solitude.

Only to have his phone ring the moment he closed the door.

The jarring sound of the ringtone drilled into his head. If it was anyone else he'd just let it ring and be done with it, but that particular ringtone meant that his father was calling and he knew better than to ignore Jonathan Penn.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and answered the phone.

"Father."

"Arthur," replied his father emotionlessly. "I just got the most interesting call from Geoffrey at the office."

Arthur grimaced. He knew what this was about. He'd really hoped that he would have weekend before his father decided to chew him out. Apparently, he just wasn't that lucky. Maybe this was the important event that Morgan had been prattling about.

"He said that you had requested that your hours at the office be cut back more than they were last year when you resumed your lessons. Is there a particular reason for this?" his father inquired. There was no hint of anything in his voice. It was the calm before the storm, as Arthur well knew.

He took a deep breath. "I wasn't an RA last year, father. With my responsibilities to the other students, I thought it best that I actually be here instead of at the office."

It was the truth, but he knew that his father wouldn't like it. Jonathan Penn had started with practically nothing before working his way up the ladder at a failing telecommunications company. He'd saved it from financial ruin and turned it into a diversified, multibillion dollar enterprise that dabbled in everything. Since day one, he'd groomed Arthur to take over and that had meant working long hours right along side his father since he was old enough. Jonathan had never really understood his son's craving for a normal life or his dedication to the personal side of his obligations. Everyone in Arthur's office loved him, he'd always been there for his teammates when he played sports, and now that he was an RA, a job that he had taken to make his father happy, he was not about to shirk that.

"You have responsibilities to this company," Jonathan said sternly. Disappointment oozed from the phone so thickly it was almost tangible. "One day it will be yours to run and you must be completely dedicated."

"I am dedicated, father," Arthur protested. "But I'm also dedicated to being an RA. I can't do that while I'm spending every spare moment looking over quarterly figures. It's only a few hours less than usual and Morgan has agreed to pick up some of the slack."

"Morgan is not the one who will be the CEO. You can't foist your duties off on your sister."

"That's not what I'm trying to do. I just want to balance my responsibilities."

"This company comes first, Arthur. No arguments. You will work the same hours you did last year."

Before Arthur could protest, Jonathan hung up. It took all of Arthur's self-restraint not to throw the phone at the wall. Instead, he very calmly changed his shirt and picked up the flyer he and Leon were supposed to be giving the students and walked to the common room.

Leon was already there, looking incredibly bored. The only other person in the room was a skinny young man with black hair and big ears who was nose deep in a book. Arthur sat down heavily next to Leon.

"Why the hell did I ever become an RA?" Arthur grumbled under his breath to his friend, and fellow RA.

Leon looked rather tried of having his conversation. "Because it will improve your leadership skills, which you will need if you want to lead your father's company, because it looks good on your resume, and because it made your father happy."

Of course Arthur already knew all that. It had all made perfect sense last year when it had come time to sign up to be an RA. Now, he was wondering if he'd gone temporarily insane.

They lapsed into silence, which stretched on and on. The time for the beginning of the meeting came and went and no one showed up. Once it was almost quarter to ten, Leon leaned over and tapped the stranger on the shoulder.

"Do you mind waiting a bit longer before we call this a disaster and try again?" he asked.

The young man shook his head. "No problem.""

Leon nodded and pulled out his phone.

No one else showed up.

When the hands on the battered clock were closer ten-thirty than they were to ten o'clock, Arthur decided he had had enough. Growling in unrepressed frustration, Arthur hauled himself to his feet and snatched up the flyers.

"Here," he said gruffly, shoving one in the new student's face. "This is what we were supposed to be talking about. Read it and don't get into trouble. That's all. You can go."

The stranger blinked. "Are we done waiting, then?"

"I don't think they're coming," Leon said calmly before Arthur could say something stupid out of frustration. "It's not surprising. Most people are still saying goodbye to their parents or unpacking and I'm sure plenty of the flyers went missing in the chaos. If you have any questions-"

"I'll come ask," he finished, a friendly smile stretching across his face. "Thanks. I'm Merlin, by the way."

Arthur snorted. "Merlin? Are you serious? Who in their right mind would name their kid Merlin?"

Groaning and raising his eyes to the ceiling, Leon seriously considered whacking Arthur upside the head. He usually wasn't too bad, but years of living with his father had led to the development of the rather unsavory habit of lashing out at others when he was angry or frustrated, just as his father did. Over the past few years, Arthur had gotten considerably better, probably because he wasn't around his father quite as much, but he still slipped up, especially when his father had berated him for something.

Merlin's face hardened at the taunt and his eyes flashed angrily. "You know, I thought we could be friends, seeing as we're living on the same floor and all, but I'd never be friends with such as ass."

"Nor I with such an idiot," Arthur retorted. "Don't you know better than to insult people you've only just met?"

"I could ask you the same thing, but I suppose you've been training to be a prat since birth, so you have an excuse."

There was something hauntingly familiar about this whole situation, but Arthur just couldn't put his finger on it. The words evoked the strangest sense of deja vu, but that was nothing compared to the feeling he got from Merlin himself. It had hit him out of nowhere. He could swear that he knew the other man, or had known him at some point. He just couldn't remember.

Merlin, meanwhile, spun on his heel and started of.

"Oh, don't walk away," Arthur called after him.

Merlin stopped and went stiff.

"From you? I've already told you that you're a prat. What more do you want to hear?"

"You can't talk to me like that. I'm your RA."

"That stands for Resident Assistant, not Royal Ass. You can't order me about."

Arthur advanced on him, throwing off the restraining hand Leon had laid on his shoulder without him noticing. "I could take you apart with one blow," he hissed. The words spilled from him before he could even really think about them, as if he'd said them before and was simply repeating them.

"I could take you apart with less than that," Merlin blurted.

"Oh really?" Arthur stepped forward again, only to catch his toe on a wrinkle in the carpet and fall, face first onto the floor.

Merlin stifled a chuckle and walked away. Arthur stared after him. He could have sworn that he'd seen the idiot's eyes flash gold just before he fell and somehow he knew that Merlin had caused him to trip. Rising to his feet, Arthur stared down the hallway after him. For the first time since the argument began he actually realized just what he'd been saying. It had been as though he was on autopilot. No, that wasn't right. It had been as if someone else was speaking through him.

"What was that about?" Leon demanded. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you could get in if he reported you?"

"I know," Arthur said tiredly. "I honestly don't know where that came from. It was...well, I suppose it doesn't matter what it was. I'll apologize tomorrow. I think I'm just over tired and that call from my father didn't help."

Leon seemed only half convinced. "All right. But that can't happen again."

"It won't. I swear. I'll see you tomorrow."

Without waiting for an answer, he hurried back to his room. Arthur locked the door securely behind him before collapsing on the bed. He felt...strange, a bit dizzy and overwhelmed. His thoughts kept drifting back to Merlin. That feeling that he should know the other man wouldn't go away.

Minutes passed before he fell into an uneasy sleep plagued by dreams.

* * *

"Bloody arrogant git," Merlin muttered, slamming the door (not too hard, it wouldn't do to upset his dorm mate so early, not matter how frustrated he was) behind him. But his anger was already melting away to be replaced by a small bit of guilt. It had been obvious to any one with eyes that the RA was both exhausted and frustrated. Merlin couldn't blame him. No one had showed up to the meeting. Who knew how much work the RA had been forced to put into the preparations for that meeting, let alone for move-in day. Merlin would have been frustrated as well. He could completely understand why the RA had been a bit gruff, and normally he wouldn't have risen to that. Something about that idiot just set Merlin off.

He hadn't even been sure where some of those insults had come from. They'd just sort of come out.

Merlin growled in frustration and collapsed back on his bed. Even if he had been the teensiest bit out of line with some of those comments it didn't change the fact that his RA was an arse of monumental proportions. This year was not going to be much fun if that prat was going to be around all the time. Merlin hoped that he could avoid him.

Sighing heavily, Merlin heaved himself out of the bed and shuffled over to the nearest half unpacked box. He rummaged through it for a moment disinterestedly, then set about unpacking his last few items and organizing everything and moving things around to his satisfaction. By the time he was done fiddling with everything, he was absolutely exhausted. He'd been up since six, scrambling round his house for the last odds and ends while his mum fussed over him. He'd been going ever since and now he could feel the telltale signs of one of his headaches coming on.

Merlin rubbed his temples and fumbled for his pajamas. There was a tiny sink in the corner, for which he was grateful. He wouldn't have to brave the common bathroom when he had a headache and he desperately wanted a glass of water.

Flicking off the light, he curled up under the blankets and tried not to think about the prat and how familiar he was as he drifted off to a dream filled sleep.

* * *

_He was standing on the battlements of a castle, looking down on the city below. The fields surrounding the city were lush and impossibly green. He could see people going about their business. He could even make out the glint of the chain mail that the guards wore._

_Walking to the other side of the battlement, he looked down on the castle courtyard. A small group of knights were training together. One, a man with dark hair that brushed his shoulders, was laughing raucously, clapping another dark-haired man on the shoulder. The second man shrugged him off good-naturedly and fell into a defensive position, his sword raised. A moment passed and they were dueling at half speed, just warming up._

_He looked up to survey the castle. Red pennants emblazoned with golden, rampant dragons flew from the towers. The walls were of white stone that glimmered in the sunlight. It was a beautiful sight, one that it had taken years to build and one that it took much to maintain. But it was all well worth it._

_Turning again to the battlement that looked out over the city, he surveyed the people below. Near the wall of the castle, two children were playing. One was making leaves float and they were chasing them. He smiled. Once upon a time, this display of innocent magic would have meant death for the children involved. That was no longer the case. There were schools for those with magic. They were no longer persecuted._

_A hand gripped his shoulder and he turned to find his best friend standing behind him, clad in the robes of his station. His friend gestured to the sky with his eyes and he looked up to see a snow-white dragon soar overhead. He looked back down and grinned._

" _So what do you think?" asked his friend._

" _I think it's what we've been fighting for."_

* * *

Arthur woke up with a start. He hadn't had that dream in years. But that wasn't the odd thing. It had never changed before. The man that had come up to him had always been faceless. Now, it was Merlin.

Figuring it was just his conscience harping at him for being a prat, he rolled back over and went to sleep, unaware that down the hall, Merlin was doing the exact same thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given all of the characters, except for Merlin, modern versions of their names. In a couple of cases (ie Uther, Gaius, Hunith, etc) where they don't have obvious modern alternatives, I've just found the best thing that I could think of. The idea is that,while they are still the people they were before, they are also the products of their time. Merlin is the exception because he's Merlin and he's magic and because I say so. Below is a list to help you keep it straight.
> 
> Helen Emerson: Hunith
> 
> Barry Emerson: Balinor
> 
> Merlin Emerson: Merlin
> 
> Morgan Penn: Morgana
> 
> Leon Knightly: Sir Leon
> 
> Arthur Penn: Arthur
> 
> Jonathan Penn: Uther
> 
> George Lareow: Gaius (Fun Fact: Lareow is old english for master healer or something like that)
> 
> Robert Moore: Mordred
> 
> That's everyone who has appeared so far. As new characters are added, I'll add them to the list.
> 
> This is not a complete rewrite of the series as a modern tale. There will be some events that closely follow the series, but that is just their subconscious coming to the forefront. They end up re-enacting familiar scenarios as their memories surface.
> 
> I would like to clarify really quickly that this story is literally set in a modern Albion. Apologies again for the extremely long delay in posting. I can't guarantee that I'll be any better. Yay for adulting! But I'm not dead, so at least that's something!


End file.
